First Chapter: My Kind of Guy
Read or listen! [Narrator: Brandon Francis]
Forest
December
Hockey fans are special. For example, they believe that yelling at a TV screen helps their team score more goals. After five years of serving drinks on game nights, it’s a miracle I don’t have permanent hearing loss.
And yet I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else tonight. As a bartender, I appreciate fans’ energy, their loyalty to the Colorado Cougars, and their lofty bar tabs. Not necessarily in that order.
Unfortunately, tonight’s contest against the New York Legends isn’t going so well.
“Holy hell! We should trade Stoneman!” one of our regulars yells as the boys fail on another turnover.
“Dude, you don’t mean that,” I argue, because Stoney is a rainmaker, and I know this fan pretty well. His name is Fred, and since he’s in here all the time, we call him Fregular. Also, he’d lose his ever-loving mind if the Cougars’ management ever traded Stoney.
Fregular burps. “Maybe. But they should get him some skating lessons! Can I have another beer?”
“Sure, pal.” Although, every beer I serve him makes him a little more certain he could do a better job than Clay Powers, the best coaching talent Colorado has ever seen.
“Need two more margaritas, boss.” Izzy, our cocktail server, approaches the bar a second later.
“On it.”
Suddenly, I’m hustling again as more drink orders roll in. That’s how it goes on game night at Sportsballs. I’m a co-owner of the queerest, least pretentious sports bar in North Denver. If the Friday night crowd wants to get loud and sloppy, I’m here for it.
I open a row of beer bottles, slide one to Fregular, and then shake up those margaritas. Scully—the other co-owner—works the opposite end of the bar, making drinks and talking smack and tapping credit cards. The Cougars are down by two goals at the second intermission, which means everyone’s drinking faster than usual.
When the order queue is finally empty, I wipe down the bar, and Scully checks his phone. “Ah, shit,” he says, looking like someone just kicked him.
“Donny drunk texting you again?” I ask. His ex-boyfriend just doesn’t know when to quit.
“No, it’s worse. Chen has a problem making one of our games.”
Oh shit. Scully and I are co-captains of a beer league hockey team. “Which game?”
His shoulders droop. “Tuesday after next.”
“Fuck. Is he going to be late again?” We almost had to forfeit a game when he got held up at work.
“Worse.” Scully rubs his chin. “His boss is sending him on a business trip.”
The glass I’m bussing stops halfway to the dish bin. “No way. We have no goalie?”
“Not unless his dickhead boss changes his mind. There’s some client dinner in Chicago.”
I’m just processing this when I notice Quiet Kid, who’s seated right in front of me at the bar. He comes in once a week, always alone. He orders a single beer and then tips like he’s trying to make up for something. Tonight, he’s wearing a faded Cougars hoodie that looks soft enough to sleep in.
And he’s listening in on my conversation with Scully with unusual interest. Like he’s trying to catch every word.
“Next Tuesday?” Fregular bellows from his end of the bar. “That’s your game against the Plague, right?”
Quiet Kid drains his beer. Without asking, I pour him a diet soda, which is all he ever drinks after his beer is gone.
“We could put Marcus in the net,” Scully suggests, not sounding convinced.
“Seriously?” I snort. “Last time he played goal in street hockey, he got scored on by an eight-year-old.”
“The boy was talented.”
“The boy was wearing Crocs.”
Quiet Kid grins, and it lights up his incredible face. But Scully groans. He grabs a towel to wipe down the taps. “So what, we forfeit to those assholes? After all their bullshit?”
I make a grunt of dismay just thinking about it. During our last game against the Plague—which we lost 8-1—our opponents spent the whole game making homophobic comments, always out of earshot of the ref. The thought of forfeiting to them makes my teeth hurt.
“We’ll ask around and find a sub for Chen.” But we both know it’s a long shot. Nobody will want to sub in against the Plague. They play like they’re trying to make up for having tiny penises. Lots of sharp elbows and obnoxious chirps.
Fregular slams down his empty bottle. “Hey! Forest! You seeing this shit? Third line’s a disaster!”
As I turn to deal with him, I catch something odd cross Quiet Kid’s face, like he’s gathering courage to say something. But when I glance his way a minute later, he’s focused on the game again, watching with a studied intensity.
A moment later, the Cougars score, and the whole bar erupts. Fregular actually hugs the stranger next to him. When the noise dies down, I hear a voice that’s become familiar despite how rarely I hear it.
“When’s this game?”
Scully and I both turn to look at Quiet Kid.
“Sorry?” I ask. “You need another soda?”
He shakes his head. “Not what I asked. What time is your game next Tuesday? I could do it.”
“Do what?” Scully asks.
“Tend goal. Unless I’m…” He seems to catch himself. “…at work.”
Scully and I exchange a look. The kid has an athletic build. He’s all lean, angular muscle and square shoulders, but that doesn’t mean he can stop a puck.
“Can you play?” I ask.
“Dude, does it even matter?” Scully laughs. “We’re desperate. The game is at nine p.m.,” he tells the kid. “Even if you have to call in sick at work, let’s make this happen. We could all chip in to compensate you for your time, maybe. Just this once.”
“I can’t call in sick,” Quiet Kid says, shifting his gaze to Scully. “But nine o’clock is no problem.”
“Slow down,” I tell Scully. “Do you have your own equipment?” I ask the kid.
A flash of humor lights the kid’s blue eyes. He’s super attractive, with a square jaw and hair the color of a wheat field. His nose has a bump in the middle, like maybe it was broken once.
Maybe he really is a goalie.
“I play,” he says. “Here, I’ll show you my high school highlights reel. One sec.” He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.
Scully gives me a meaningful glare that says, Be nice. We need this guy.
He’s probably right, but Scully is the kind of charmer who says yes to anything, and I’m the asshole who says, “Wait a minute while I overthink this.”
Someone has to be the grownup around here.
The kid holds out his phone, and Scully and I lean in to watch a video. It’s high school hockey, sure, but after watching for just a few seconds, it’s obvious the goalie is a stud. He moves like water. A breakaway shot deflects off his blocker like he knew where it was going before the shooter did. In the next highlight, he’s down in a butterfly, kicking out his right pad to deny what should have been a goal.
The third clip shows him tracking through traffic, somehow finding a slapshot that I can barely see through the mass of bodies. He makes each save look easy, like he’s casually swatting flies. Even in shaky phone footage, the talent is obvious. The kid has that sixth sense that all great goalies have, like he can read the puck’s mind.
“You’ll do,” I say drily, trying not to sound too impressed.
“Yeah, but I have one condition,” he says, his voice gathering strength.
“Name it,” Scully says. “Anything.”
The kid points at me. “I win this game, and he takes me home after.”
I blink. “You need a ride? Where do you live?”
“No, man.” He sighs and shakes his attractive head. “I mean for sex.”
Oh shiiiiit. I’m actually speechless at this request. And not in a good way.
Beside me, Scully puts his head in his hands. “Oh God, really? With Forest? And here I thought we had a chance against the Plague.”
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